Aarya

By Shreyans Zaveri

New Delhi, India's capital city, wakes up to its usual morning. Pankaj Khurana, on the other hand, gets a disturbing phone call. The prime minister is in grave danger. Khurana, the director of the Special Protection Group (SPG), responsible for the prime minister’s security, has a daunting situation at hand now. As he jumps into action, miles away, in a town close to Mumbai, more trouble brews. Izadyar Bagli, a prominent industrialist receives disturbing news. His close friend has been abducted. These incidences seem to show common links, and as they unfold, a terrible, never before seen nemesis comes to fore. The SPG and the paramilitary forces must now unite to tackle a formidable foe that has risen from the ashes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shreyans Zaveri
• Release date: Jul 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781091491878

Shreyans Zaveri

Shreyans Zaveri has always had a strong inclination toward storytelling. His style of fiction is derived from exposure to spiritual texts and teachings early on in her life. Varied scriptures such as the Vedas and Tattvarthsutra have shaped his imagination and narrative. He loves to research, study, and learn about history, spirituality, science, and metaphysics. Apart from storytelling, he is a full-time filmmaker and visual effects artist. He loves to spend time in nature, under the stars, and at spiritual retreats. His educational background ranges from a masters degree in philosophy to a masters degree in visual effects. His stories are proudly formed and rooted in India, and made for the world.

Book preview

Aarya

This book is a complete work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and situations are products of the author’s imagination, other than those clearly in the public domain and as such, are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This piece of literature was originally published on the twenty sixth of March 2019 by Shreyans Zaveri. All rights reserved, including any right to reproduce the book or any portion of it thereof in any form whatsoever. For information and permission requests, contact Shreyans Zaveri.

Copyright © 2019 Shreyans Zaveri

Manuscript registered with the Writers Guild of America

Cover page design – Tony Washington

Font design – Bismark Fernandes

Production acknowledgments

SZPixelpro

ZE

ISBN: 9781091491878

Preface

Aarya has been an extremely enriching journey for me. As the book evolved, so did I. It took over three years to piece together this story. What began with a single idea flourished into this piece of literature. While researching for Aarya, I came across many texts and scriptures of Hindustani origin that intrigued me, enriched my sense of self, gave me a deeper world view and pushed me to evolve as a person. It gave me insights into my true inner self and pushed me to learn more about the world by taking the ever-evasive inner journey.

Aarya is a contemporary Indian fictional story, set in India. It draws parallels from daily life as we know in India. It was extremely satisfying to write this book as I had the freedom to draw from personal experiences and create a fictional world that is deeply rooted in reality.

Aarya will not only take you on a journey that will make you question outwardly happenings and events. It will also guide you to begin a journey that is focused inwards. It will help you open up dimensions in your reality that you never knew existed. I hope you enjoy reading this approach to what I would like to term Swadeshi fiction. With Aarya, I present to you a new chapter in the world of Indian fiction.

Shreyans Zaveri

Acknowledgements

The idea, thought, production and physical manifestation of this novel wouldn’t have been possible without the immense contribution of friends and family. Here are a few people without whom this book wouldn’t be a reality.

Sagar Pagar

Ishaan Chari

Pooja Kulkarni

Jinang Kothari

Priyanka Dave

Harsh Sampat

Archana Kannan

Nikhil Rao

Gamage Mahinda Abeywickrama

Maithili Chari

Venkatesh Chari

Aditi Shah

Rushab Shah

Bismark Fernandes

Mazyar Sharifian

Aditi Vyas

Abhishrey Zaveri

Chandra Kiran Zaveri

Jogesh Shah

Urvashi Shah

SJZ

The Silent Dance

A warm, velvety blanket settled over the quaint little village in the heart of central India. The air was humid and comforting. A serene array of stars dotted the night sky, fragmented only by far-flung cotton-like clouds that lined the horizon. Lush green trees stood surrounding the village, covering it from the outside world as they merged into the adjoining forests. From the heavy leaves of the almond tree to the lighter petal-like leaves on the ferns, all life forms stood still. The very air of this village was draped in slumber. The night seemed devoid of any movement, and the only sound was that of buzzing insects followed by occasional screeches from barn owls. It was a routine, peaceful night for the townsfolk. A few people however were up to something in the dead of the night. A tall man clad in earth colored robes silently walked through the village and disappeared into the darkness.

The recent digitization efforts in the country were apparent by the neatly lined streetlights and well-lit common areas throughout the quadrangles. A few stray dogs walked through the streets, their paws echoing in a rhythmic cluck, cluck, cluck as their pack moved stealthily in the night. They, too, were unusually quiet tonight. An eerie, low hum filled the air; it sounded as if it was given out from some electronic device. In the otherwise silent night, the hum reverberated intimidatingly. Over this frightening calmness rose a slow, menacing stream of smoke, wafting up to touch the skies. It seemed to be emanating from deep within the forests and was steadily accumulating into an ominous cloud. This area in the forest was not a very welcome place for many and was, in fact, feared by most village folks.

A neat cemented road ran through the village and connected its interior parts to the national highway. On the edges of this road, toward the outskirts, arose a narrow trail. It seemed more like a walkway that cut across and wound into the forests. In the faint light of the stars, a few slithering snakes were swiftly moving through the darkness. It was unnatural to see so many of them moving in the same direction. It was as if they were sensing a natural calamity of some sort. They moved through this narrow trail, a road the villagers seldom took. Deep within the forest area, where the trail led, stood the holy cremation ground. This was one’s last place on earth before they went onward into their journey and became one with the omnipresent ether. On these cremation grounds, a pyre burned bright red with flames that were steadily growing and reaching out to the skies. The crackle from the pyre was loud and distinct through the otherwise silent night. The flames grew brighter, and an unusual set of people sat around it in a meditative pose. One could hear the familiar hum filling up the air, and now it was more plausible as to where it originated from. A steady drone escaped the bodies of these men as their vocal cords resonated to a mechanical chant. Human bones were placed next to the pyre, and they sat in a pattern that formed a big circle around it. The strange man who was walking through the village, silently joined them in their ceremony. The men themselves were bare but for a few necessary rags covering their bodies. Ash was smeared onto their bodies, and they bore bright red tilaks on their foreheads. The group of men sat still as rocks in what looked like a state of induced meditative trance. The snakes were making their way toward these men and circling them. As if being summoned by the sound, the snakes reciprocated with their presence.

The whole setting seemed sinister and intimidating, but the men themselves were calm and continued chanting as if it was a daily routine. They were seated in some sort of a hierarchy. Each sat in a circle that was drawn onto the earth and was facing the pyre in a precisely calculated angle. It seemed like an unusual practice, the likes of which were hardly seen or heard of. The fire was emanating from a human dead body and was burning abnormally brightly. It seemed viscous and fueled with something unnatural for it to be raging so angrily. The immediate trees and foliage around the pyre seemed empty and lifeless. Even the animals and other life forms apart from the snakes kept away from this part of the forest.

An ancient, near-forgotten clan of ascetics romanced the free land of Hindustan for many centuries. Their practices were intense and extreme. In fact, most people in the surrounding town feared the Aaghori sadhus. And fear has a fixed way of working, as we all know; we fear that which we do not understand. The practices of these sadhus were beyond rational understanding for most people, and the nature of certain rituals earned them a disrespectful, rather fearful place in the society. Nothing they did was normal: their life, their way of living, or their death. Everything seemed extreme, unorthodox, and in some cases, unacceptable. They lived an unexplainable life, which was difficult to fathom from a structured social perspective. These ascetics were irrationally fearless and would go roaring into their own deaths. The village folk knew of the Aaghoris, but they seldom crossed paths with them. These strange ascetics never caused trouble or came begging. Their only claim was over the various cremation grounds, and the villagers were happy to let them have them. They were fully integrated into the social structure as people who dealt with Smashantara, the goddess of death, and people preferred not mentioning them or learning about their lives any further. Here, the Aaghoris sat in a circle watching a body burn as they chanted incantations under their breaths. The snakes were moving around them in patterns as they sat there undisturbed by their presence. It seemed like a complex ritual from the looks of it, and they seemed to be in control and deeply engrossed in the performance. They were making precise hand gestures, and their tones would change all at once as if they were interconnected to each other. To any outsider this practice would seem unethical and gory, but to them it was routine. A few hours had passed since they began the ritual. They continued humming in a consistent tone and volume, their pitch not quivering throughout the strenuous ritual.

The night was starved of a moon, leaving only the stars to witness this ritual. They provided very little light to the earth down below. The flame was steadily growing stronger as if constantly being supplied by an invisible fuel, and it licked the very skies as it roared higher. The corpse burst as the trapped air escaped it, letting loose its fluids, and a mighty flame engulfed the surrounding logs. The Aaghoris sat there, calm and unflinching. After what seemed like forever, the head Aaghori slowly opened his eyes and looked into the flames. He was built massively; his physique was strong and chiseled down to the last muscle. The veins on his arms showed through in crisp green patterns. His hair was matted and tied up in a rough bun over his head, and his body was adorned with various tattoos. These weren’t normal ink tattoos that one would wear as a fashion statement. These were carved into the skin using thorns and filled with soot and animal fat. These tattoos would sink into their skin and remain there forever, becoming richer and more pronounced as the wounds healed. If the wounds didn’t heal, one wasn’t fit to live, is what they believed. The Aaghori’s gaze grew stern as he read the numerous patterns that were visible in the fierce fire. With an expert gaze, he was deciphering the signs the flame was giving out. He had been practicing this for many years, and he knew exactly what he was seeing. Aaghoris studied natural phenomena all the time. They usually did it around the dead, which made it sound like an insane thing to do. But for them death was something they accepted and worshiped, unlike most people, who flinch to talk about or even acknowledge it. They had made peace with it, for it was the only certain gift along with that of life. The head Aaghori slowly raised his hand to silence the others and indicated that they were to stop the chanting. The fire was giving them some answers. Sometimes they were looking for them, sometimes they stumbled upon them unknowingly. The others fell silent and waited curiously to hear him out; it was only on rare occasions that he would disrupt their practice. Many years ago we instilled life into a dark silence that came our way. The Aaghori spoke in a deep voice as his gaze continued to read the fire. The flames were dancing and flickering menacingly in the dark night. His hand reached out as a snake slid onto his palm and slithered around his arm. For all these years I wondered where that life went, he continued to talk. That silence is back. And this time it seems to have grown stronger.

Most people never encouraged the Aaghoris, let alone listen to them. Only a rare few went to them for worldly favors, for which there was always a steep price to pay in kind. Else, you stumbled upon them by pure fate. For most of their lives they remained very well hidden from public view. For centuries they co-existed within the realms of society and rarely interfered in the workings of the world. The Aaghoris always spoke in puzzles, but the knowledge of the true practicing Aaghoris was nothing short of divine. It ran deep into the unknown abysses of life, sometimes having the most unusual yet simple explanations for complex problems and vice versa. They knew and understood many of the enigmas that the universe presented and how it affected one’s being in the human form. Only when one loses all sense of fear can they truly be open to the nature of true knowledge. Aaghoris, with their practices, overcame the fear of death. Imagine the strength that would bring to a person. Hence, they had the answers that no one else had. We must act, he said. All the gathered Aaghoris understood what their head ascetic meant and looked at him for further instruction. We never interfere with the happenings of the world, for it is not ours to save. We watch in silence and we learn. But this one . . . this silence we unleashed upon the world will bring harm to the lands we live in. The Aaghori got up from his poised stance and looked at his kin. The snake wound around his arm. We might have to step into the world of men, he said.

Why will they believe us? asked one of the others. He was equally built and seemed to be some sort of a second in command. They despise us and our very ways; they always have, he argued. You shouldn’t have instilled life that night. You shouldn’t interfere tonight either. It is their problem to deal with now, he said.

The head Aaghori nodded in acknowledgment, understanding very well what he meant. You seem to remember that night vehemently. They are unaware and ignorant. That is why they deride us, he replied.

Then we should let them live in their ignorance, the second-in-command Aaghori retorted.

The head Aaghori did not respond. He turned around and continued to study the fire. He lit his crude leaf-rolled cigar with the help of a wooden stick that he pulled from the pyre. He took his time answering as he pulled in a deep puff of smoke from his bright burning cigar. This time . . . they won’t have a choice but to listen to us. This supernatural power is beyond their understanding to deal with, he concluded in his deep, commanding voice as the smoke escaped his lips. The fire was casting shadows over his face, and in his eyes one could see the silent dance of the flames revealing to him a deep dark secret that only he could understand.

The Capital Calls

A humble villa stood in the secured bylanes of a quiet little town. This town was more of a village that had developed steadily over the years and was a few hours away from the noisy hustle and bustle of Mumbai. The financial lifeline of India, Mumbai had earned and was often called the city that never slept. This little town was a breath of fresh air from the ever-awake vibrancy of Mumbai. Even though it had developed substantially, it had somehow maintained its silent and peaceful aura. The villa stood in a secluded area by the lake, and the adjoining vacant and vast lands were also secured by the owner. So, in the vast expanse of land surrounding it, the villa was the only manmade structure. Though it seemed humble and minimal, the villa was adorned lavishly. It was sophisticated in terms of décor and was equipped with every creature comfort ever conceived by mankind. A grand piano sat in the living room. Its stark white exterior reflected the elegantly done-up lights around it. The foot pedals were plated with pure gold along with the family monogram engraved in gold on the top. The temperature around the musical instrument was regulated to keep the wood of the piano from aging or warping. A variety of art collected from all over the world was placed in the room. From wooden doors that were made from the finest and most ancient Indian wood soured from the holy mountains of Haridwar, to porcelain sets that once belonged to Persian rulers. Everything was handpicked and custom made for the owner of the house. Huge photo frames hung on the wall showing off the family collection of cars and propeller driven private planes. The silverware and furniture linen had the family initials finely embroidered onto them, and the acoustics of the home were designed to keep reverberations to a minimum. All of this was made as sustainably as possible; the entire house ran on renewable energy and garnered zero waste. It was self-sufficient and more resourceful than any other household in the country. It felt like one was walking into an upscale art gallery, only this one was much classier.

Badrikumar, the head butler and man Friday to Mr. Izadyar Rointan Bagli was woken up by an unusual call in the wee hours of the morning. He was hesitant to wake Mr. Izadyar yet and was contemplating the situation. Neethi Kumari Patlikh had called up on their landline phone and urged to discuss an urgent matter with Mr. Izadyar. Badrikumar knew well that Mr. Izadyar wouldn’t want to be disturbed by anything menial at this hour, but Neethi Kumari was different. She was like a daughter to him, and if she was in trouble, he would want to know the situation. Badrikumar considered for a while and decided to wait it out till she arrived. On hearing her, he would then decide if Mr. Izadyar was to be woken up or not. In any case, Mr. Izadyar was an early riser, and if by then he was up by himself, he wouldn’t have to worry about cutting his sleep short. The house help was already abuzz preparing for the day. Mr. Izadyar was very disciplined: his day started with yoga and a meditation routine followed by breakfast, after which he scheduled the most difficult tasks for early mornings. He met with people, reviewed daily portfolios of his companies, and then headed over to the board to fulfill his duties as a consultant member to one of India’s largest private sector companies, a majority of which was jointly owned by him and his family members. He usually never deviated from his set routine and liked to be in control of each day. Izadyar was a man of finesse, class, and most importantly, silence. His stare, body language, and utter presence spoke volumes for themselves. His presence also commanded a great deal of respect and attention, which he had rightfully earned over the years, and he commanded it with panache.

Neethi had hardly slept that night. Her mind was preoccupied with the events of the past few hours. Her heart was palpitating, and she felt tense from within. She had asked the driver not to slow down or stop at any red lights or for any other reason whatsoever. She had to anyhow see Izadyar Ji at the earliest. Her car sped ahead along with the security vehicle that was assigned to her by the police force as they made their way through the outskirts of the city to reach Mr. Izadyar’s house. It had been a few hours since her mother called and gave her the news. Neethi had rushed to the police station to talk to the inspector on duty and to give her statement to put on record. She was so shaken by the news that she had decided to take matters into her own hands. She didn’t want to wait and watch like her coward of a mother did. Neethi knew there